“T’was a sweet song that filled the night, her hand pressing softly against my back as I was lulled to sleep. Her warmth surrounds me as fear slips away and the night is yet again claimed for silent slumber.” – Aidan, 3.5 years old
At least thats how I hope Aidan feels about me at 1am (and 2am… 3am… 4am… 5am) when I’m crouched by his bedside, cold and shivering, stroking his temple in a rhythmic pattern willing him to sleep so I can get some of my own. I don’t know where he gets it from but it’s the only thing that works.
Sleep is rarely an issue at our house as far as Aidan and Steve are concerned. Usually the two of them pass out by 8 o’clock and I’m left to spend the rest of my night working or cleaning. To be honest I prefer it that way, the silent darkness soothes the constant nattering that fills my brain by day.
For as long as I can remember I’ve been a night owl, silent in the night, solitude my only company. I’d sing songs, look at pretty pictures in magazines and write. The earliest I can remember doing this was when I was 10. Lights would have to be out by 7 o’clock and suddenly my creative life would come alive by torchlight.
As an adult it’s no different except there are now baby hedgehogs and turtles and silly puppies on YouTube to delight and distract me. There is also currently a sweet child of mine, coughing, snotting and tossing his way into my mind space. “Winter is coming!” the towns people said and I was glad for his vaporiser and for my thick socks.
He cries out and I am there. My poor little poppet to weak to fend for himself. The doona at his feet too far for him to reach. The water by his bedside not cold enough to drink. All a classic case of the “I’m-sick-I-want-my-mumma-for-every-second-until-I’m-better-but-it’s-also-totally-reasonable-to-fight-her-every-step-of-the-way-itis” which leaves me catching a fever myself at times.
I thought Man-Flu was bad, Baby-Man-Flu is so much worse.
Now can someone please stroke my temple until I fall asleep the way my mother used to… Zzz